Listen up, mesdames et messieurs: it is time to rethink your plans for a romantic getaway in Paris. Madness, you say? Just hear me out – I’ve been there, lived there and would happily give away the old T-shirt. (Read More)
‘Western civilisation is more connected than ever, yet the ability of populations to discern fact from fiction and to decide which is an outright lie has declined. In the case of Trump, what is curious, is the presumption that politicians and leaders will lie seems to have reached a satirical impasse. There’s the cliche that politicians or someone in public life will lie but surely they can’t lie that much. There is an implicit presumption and trust that they could never go that far and it has allowed, with the absence of historical knowledge, deception, and hyperbole to become commonplace.’ (Read More)
With the holiday season underway, thousands of Brits will be travelling to a variety of foreign destinations; some heading to cities and resorts and some travelling to much more remote destinations. Wherever we go, our role as tourists has the potential to impact and accentuate serious issues facing the countries we visit. Whilst travel offers a fantastic opportunity to switch off from the intensity of work and studying, are we staying switched on to the full impact of our actions abroad? (Read More)
These thoughts, of course, all congeal together to make the return flight a tedious slow motion haze of recognisable cliché. No, I don’t want a menu. No, I don’t want anything to eat. No, I don’t want a lottery ticket, duty-free items, charity donation forms or anything else from the tat rags they pedal at 30,000 feet. There’s also a special place in hell for anyone that keeps repeatedly bumping your shoulder as they march past you down the aisle. (Read More)
When living abroad and going home intersect, usually when you’re travelling to and fro, each place becomes a series of distinct, episodic memories. It’s a surprisingly purifying ritual to travel home and remember with unforced clarity what have been the accomplishments and can-do-better moments of the last few months. (Read More)
That’s not even the weird part. Cross over from Spain and your next obstacle is to walk across North Front Airfield. To divine an understanding as to why someone thought this design was a good idea is to divine the meaning of life at the same time. For all that Gibraltar looks British it’s probably the last hold out against health and safety as 747s are taking off from a runway which intersects Winston Churchill Avenue, the main north-south street, which requires movable barricades to close when aircraft land and depart. The History Channel programme Most Extreme Airports ranked the airport the fifth most extreme airport in the world and it’s no wonder. (Read More)
My country: What does it mean to me when I’m abroad?
This question forms a remarkably regular part of your thoughts when you’re sitting a thousand miles from home and 347 miles from the nearest British embassy in Madrid. For some the answer begins and ends with a British passport or the inconvenience of customs or the ridiculously high phone tariffs that signal being abroad. For others, the question never even occurs, but for those of a more pontificating or alarmist disposition, the question becomes whether or not the UK can protect its citizens if they get into real trouble abroad.
So here we are. There were few cars. There were no people. And it was 2am in the morning at this point. It was genuinely bad. Thank God we kept our heads (we didn’t at all, hyperbole and drama and laughing off trouble has been the silent third partner to our duo for over 13 years). (Read More)
Ryanair has all the charm of an old whore who charges too much. I don’t despise flying. It’s the whole system. As soon as you arrive at the airport you’re treated as a commercial puppy; either too stupid to see that the markup is so through the roof as to break a Zimbabwean bank or you’re condescended to in such a way as to make you question your own faculties at 4am. (Read More)
Living abroad for ten months, with a ten-day visit home at Christmas, dulls the senses a bit. It’s July now and after so long away and either by necessity or circumstance home becomes an intangible lucid dream in the back of your head: it’s so familiar that when you invoke it you’re there with every detail. When you return to Her Majesty’s shores the same thing can be said of El Ejido, where I work or Almerimar where I live. Sandy beaches, beautiful vistas and a deep love for my job teaching English: you get the gist. (Read More)
There had been no training, no police check, no request for my CV – just a dried up whiteboard marker and twenty pairs of Cambodian eyes peeping out from haystack hair, expecting some kind of magic. (Read More)